The Chisellers Page 13

  Ben opened the envelope, read the page and then returned it to the envelope. He sat for a few moments just staring at the money, his mind clicking. Finally he made his decision. He took Manny’s passport and into it he slid fifty pounds in sterling. He then took the two foil-wrapped parcels and stuffed one into each pocket of his anorak. He took a fistful of money, which later turned out to be three thousand pounds and rammed it down the belt of his trousers. He closed the safe and left.

  When Ben Daly arrived at the night desk in Maidstone Police Station it was 2am. He handed the desk sergeant Manny Wise’s passport along with the fifty pounds Manny was short for his bail. The sergeant did not like Ben Daly.

  ‘Who are you?’ the sergeant asked.

  ‘I’m the man who just gave you the passport and fifty pounds,’ Ben answered very coolly.

  ‘And what’s your. name?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Let’s just say I’m interested.’

  ‘Well, you should get interested in butterflies, they’re easier to catch.’

  The desk sergeant gave up. Within minutes Manny Wise was collecting his personal belongings, including an empty wallet, and he left the building with Ben. They didn’t speak till they were safely cocooned in the Sunbeam Rapier and heading down the motorway towards the city.

  ‘You’re a good mate, Ben, I knew I could depend on you,’ Manny said without taking his eyes off the road.

  ‘No problem, Manny,’ Ben answered, and he too stared straight ahead.

  ‘Those fuckers - I think I’ll be giving Maidstone a miss,’ Manny laughed.

  ‘Yeh,’ Ben answered, and he too laughed.

  When the laughter died down Manny leaned across and tapped Ben on the back. ‘Let’s go back to my place, Ben, we’ll snort a line and have a couple of laughs. What do yeh say, mate?’

  ‘Nah, Manny, not tonight, man. I’m really tired. If yeh just drop me off in Harlesden I’d appreciate it.’

  ‘Sure, Ben, sure.’

  ‘Yeh don’t mind, Manny, d’yeh?‘

  ‘No, no way, Ben, I really am very thankful for what yeh did tonight, Ben. You’re a good mate, and I’ll show my appreciation in the right way at the weekend.’

  ‘Ah it’s nothin’! Sure, you’d do the same for me, Manny,‘ Ben swiftly put in, half-knowing this was not the case.

  After dropping Ben off, Manny drove straight back to his apartment on the Edgeware Road. The police car was still there and as he locked his car Manny gave the policemen a little wave. They looked back at him, their faces full of scorn. Manny laughed loudly and slammed the front door of the building.

  On the first floor an apartment door opened, and the head of an elderly man popped out. ‘I say, there, is it necessary to make so much noise each time you enter the building?’ he asked. It was obvious from his tone that he had once been a man of authority, probably army. Never the less, it had taken him months to pluck up the courage to confront this man who lived in the apartment above his own. Like the other residents in the building the old soldier knew exactly who this man was and how dangerous he was. But, enough was enough, a man had to make a stand sometime.

  Manny climbed the first flight of stairs to where the old man was and put his face right up to the old guy’s. ‘If you don’t like it, Pop, then fuckin’ move.’

  The man closed his door without reply. He was shaking.

  Manny bounded up the remaining stairs and noisily let himself into his apartment. He removed his coat, tossed it on the couch, went to the stereo and pushed a button. Lights came on and the speakers came alive with Nat King Cole singing ‘When I Fall In Love’. Manny then went to the drinks cabinet, filled a crystal glass with ice and poured a good four fingers of Scotch into it. Even as he took his first swig he was walking towards the bathroom. He gave the knob one swift turn, the shower gurgled and then began to spit out hot steaming water.

  After his shower, Manny came from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist, a second smaller towel which he used to dry his hair in one hand and the Scotch in the other hand. He placed his glass on the table, bent down, and whirled the combination wheel of his safe. As soon as he opened the door he knew there was something wrong. He could tell instinctively that there was a good wadge of money missing, and when he reached his hand back into the darkness to where the tray was, he could feel no foil-wrapped packages. He stood erect and screamed, ‘The bastard!’

  Nearly four hours had passed since Manny had dropped Ben Daly off at the TV rental shop. Manny stood in front of the apartment door above the shop. He leaned his back against the wall, raised his leg and slammed his heel into the door just above the lock. It flew open. Manny found exactly what he expected to find. Ben Daly, or whoever he was, was gone.

  For the next few days Manny had his runners scouring London for Ben Daly. He also hired a couple of thugs to keep round-the-clock watch on both Heathrow and Gat wick airports. He even got in touch with some mates of his in Liverpool who had agreed, for a small fee, to shoot down to Holyhead for a few days and keep an eye on the departures there. Manny was convinced that Ben Daly, like all animals on the run, would head for home.

  Luckily, Manny had a photograph of Ben. It was a shot taken by one of those sidewalk photographers as he and Ben were leaving The Mean Fiddler one night. He had copies of the photograph made and distributed to all the runners. He tried over the next few days to keep business going as normal, but Ben’s betrayal was eating through his stomach like acid. Every spare moment Manny Wise had, he spent either at the train stations or at one of the airports in the hope that he would see Ben.

  Three weeks after Ben’s disappearance hopes of finding him were looking grim. Manny had called off the Liverpool boys, his city runners had all come back with no good news and Manny had taken to just dropping by the airports himself the odd time.

  ‘Some day - you little bastard!’ Manny mumbled to himself as he walked across the concourse at Departures in Heathrow terminal. He was looking for a newsagent’s to get a paper. He went into WH Smith‘s, only to find they didn’t have a Standard left. The girl suggested that their shop down in Arrivals might have one, so with nothing else to do, Manny took the escalator down.

  He was halfway down when he saw him. He had dyed his hair and had cleaned himself up, but there was no doubt about it, it was Ben Daly. Manny kept cool. At the bottom of the escalator he half-hid behind a circular pillar and watched as the disguised figure of Ben Daly walked up and down, glancing at his watch. When the figure turned his back to Manny, Manny quickly began to move towards him. The flick-knife in his hand up his right sleeve clicked and the gleaming stiletto-like blade barely protruded from his hand.

  Fuck you, Ben Daly, Manny thought as his anger built up. The distance between the two of them closed. Manny nearly wished that Ben would turn around, he wanted to see his face as he pushed the blade into his heart. When Manny was within fifteen feet of his target the young man suddenly spun around and called, ‘There you are!’ to a much older, also well-dressed man.

  The young man and the older man hugged each other and Manny could now see the young man’s face very clearly. It was not Ben Daly. He had very nearly stabbed the wrong man.

  ‘Fuck! I’m gettin’ paranoid,’ he mumbled to himself, and beads of perspiration popped out on his brow.

  The young man caught his gaze and looked at Manny, puzzled. Manny quickly spun on his heel and headed for the newsagent’s.

  I wonder what he wanted? Mark Browne thought, gazing after the peculiar-looking man who had stared at him as he embraced Greg Smyth at the Arrivals gate. But the thought soon left his mind as Greg broke into an apology.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry, Mark, the traffic was horrendous.’

  ‘It must have been, Greg, it’s not like you to be late.’

  ‘Well, the car’s outside - let’s go,’ Greg began to usher Mark from the Arrivals building. But instead of moving towards the door, Mark began to look around the building.

  ‘Tell
me, Greg, do yeh know if there’s a postbox here?’

  ‘Why yes, Mark, I think it’s over there by the foreign exchange.’

  ‘Just give me a minute, will yeh? I have a letter to post.’

  Mark had used the time while waiting for Greg Smyth in deep thought about his mother. Although she never discussed him, and his name was never even mistakenly dropped in conversation, Mark knew how much Agnes longed to believe that some day Frankie would return, successful, and with a good explanation as to why he had partaken in the beating of his younger brother and stolen his mother’s money. No amount of explaining would ever erase the disgust Mark felt every time he thought of Frankie. Yet he knew that if the scenario were to occur, as remote a possibility as it was, that he would earnestly welcome Frankie back, but only because he knew how happy it would make his mother. For a few moments the thought fleetingly - very fleetingly - crossed his mind as to whether it would be possible for him to track Frankie down in London and convince him to contact home. Suddenly Mark had an idea. He went to the WH Smith newsagent’s in the Arrivals building and bought a card. Using his left hand, he scribbled a little note on the inside, inserted forty pounds in English money, then addressed the card to Mrs Agnes Browne, 43 Wolfe Tone Grove, Finglas West, Dublin 11. This was the letter he needed to post before departing for business with Greg Smith.

  The three-day business trip went well for Mark, but still he was happy to get back. Greg Smyth had upped his order, and Mark had finally convinced the Army and Navy Stores to begin taking supplies of the newly designed Elizabeth suite. The store presumed that the suite was named after their good queen, and Mark allowed them to think this, knowing it was better than their knowing that it was actually named for a young Betty Collins back in Dublin. Mark had his briefcase on his lap and was reviewing the order dockets as the taxi sped him towards Dublin’s city centre. He made a point on returning from his business trips always to go straight to the store of Wise & Co. Bespoke Furniture, and inform Mr Wise and Sean McHugh of how he had done. The two men now stood well back from the business end and allowed Mark, who was now Managing Director of the company, to plough ahead.

  Still, when Mark arrived back from his trips, Sean and Mr Wise would go over the order dockets as if (a) they understood and (b) they felt that what they thought would actually make a difference to this dynamic young man. It was a little game all three played and was enjoyed equally by all parties.

  This time Mark arrived at the store in Capel Street only to find that Mr Wise had been taken ill that morning and was now tucked up in a bed in the Bon Secours hospital, a private hospital on the north side of Dublin.

  ‘He took one of his turns,’ Sean explained, sounding a little more worried then usual.

  With a player missing, they didn’t bother with the usual game and at 5.30pm Mark helped Sean lock up the shop and he got the bus home to his mother’s.

  When Mark sat down to his tea he was joined by his mother, Trevor, Rory, Dermot and Cathy. Agnes, who was always bright and cheery in the company of her children, seemed to have an extra bounce in her step tonight. Mark barely noticed this as his mind was on Mr Wise. The opening of the shop in Capel Street was just a temporary respite, and although Mr Wise had certainly perked up a lot in the initial months of his working in the shop, this had been as short and sweet as an ass’s gallop. He then went through a period of highs and lows. One day he looked as if he would run a hundred-yard sprint, the next you wondered if he could walk across a room. Eventually, the lows outnumbered the highs, and Mr Wise shortened his working week to one or two days. His ‘turns’ were more frequent than ever and it seemed as if he constantly had a small pill beneath his tongue. Mark tried to shake the thought of a sick Mr Wise from his head and focus his attention on young Trevor.

  ‘How’s school goin’, Trev?‘ he asked.

  Trevor had his elbow beside his plate and his head resting on his hand, and he didn’t look up. ‘Okay.’

  Trevor was the only one of the Browne family that was not a talker. Conversations with him were usually one-way traffic and his answers were as short as possible, if not entirely monosyllabic.

  But now Trevor did look up. ‘I have a letter for yeh, Mammy.’

  ‘A letter for me? From who?’ Agnes frowned.

  ‘From Miss Conway,’ Trevor said flatly.

  Miss Conway was the principal of St Mary’s school where Trevor went. In her mid-fifties, it was unlikely now that she would ever marry. Monday to Friday she devoted herself to the school, tirelessly working on the young children in an effort to open their minds to the possibilities and opportunities that could lie before them. Miss Conway believed that there was no such thing as a bad child. She was a strict disciplinarian, but even the worst of the children regarded her as fair, and the rest positively adored her. She was a branch secretary of the newly formed Greenpeace, an organisation working for a better environment throughout the world. She also spent part of her weekends teaching Traveller children, visiting halting sites all over Dublin city and the surrounding areas. She was a prominent member of Victor Bewley’s Travellers’ Trust.

  Agnes regarded her as a weirdo and always referred to her as the ‘Do-gooder’. Trevor left the table and returned with a manila envelope, which he handed to his mother. Agnes tore open the envelope and read the short letter.

  ‘Christ — now what’s wrong?’

  ‘What is it, Mammy?’ Mark asked.

  ‘She’d like me to drop up tomorrow, to have a little chat about Trevor.’

  Agnes put the letter down on the table and scolded Trevor. ‘What have yeh done now?’

  ‘I dunno.’ Trevor looked back down at his plate.

  Everybody went back to eating their dinner. After a couple of moments Agnes reached into her apron pocket and took out an envelope. ‘Speakin’ of letters — I got this this morning.’ She held up the white envelope.

  Mark recognised it immediately. ‘What’s that, Mammy?’ he asked.

  ‘A card. From Francis,’ she announced proudly.

  All heads lifted from their plates simultaneously and in unison the family said, ‘Frankie!’

  ‘That’s right - Francis.’

  ‘Where is he? What’s he doin’?‘ Cathy asked.

  ‘Doin’ very well for himself. Workin’ as a travellin’ salesman, he says. Will I read it to yis?’

  Mark poured himself another cup of tea, and tried to sound as indifferent as possible. ‘Sure, Ma,’ he said, ‘if you want to.’

  Agnes took the card from the envelope. On the front it said ‘Thinking of you, Mother’ above a bouquet of flowers. Agnes read this aloud as if it were poetry. And then she began. ’“Dear Mammy, I’m so sorry I have not written in such a long time. What happened to Rory was a mistake, but even so I should never have been a part of it, and I will never find enough words to tell Rory how sorry I am.”‘ Agnes looked at Rory and smiled. ’He’s sorry luv,‘ she told him, in case he hadn’t heard what she’d read. Then she went on. ’“Can you ever forgive me for takin’ your bingo money? The only explanation I can offer is that I was frightened and knew I had to leave the country. I had no money, so I took what was there. If it takes me forever I will pay you back. I enclose forty pounds as a first payment.”‘

  Agnes now delved into her apron pocket and held aloft two English twenty-pound notes, moving them in a circular motion around the table so that each one of the children would have a chance to see them. Again she smiled and put the forty pounds back in her pocket.

  ‘“I am workin’ as a travelling salesman, so there is no point in me givin’ you a return address, I move so often. But I will be in touch again, soon. Love, your son, Francis.”’

  Agnes closed the card and Mark once again saw that twinkle in her eye that had been missing for so long.

  ‘Here, let’s see it, Ma,’ Dermot asked and took the card from his mother’s hand. He studied it for a few moments and over the top of it he peered at Mark. Mark caught his gaze and dropped his eyes.
Dermot knew about things. He closed the card and handed it back to his mother.

  ‘Well, that’s great, Mammy. At least we know he’s well, it’ll stop you worrying so much.’ Dermot went back to his tea.

  ‘Yes,’ Agnes said to no-one in particular, and she held the card to her breast.

  That night Mark Browne and Cathy Browne both headed out on dates, Dermot called in for Buster Brady and the two of them headed off for a game of snooker to the Cross Guns Snooker Club in Phibsboro. Rory took Trevor to a movie. So it was that Agnes was alone when Pierre called for one of his early visits, knowing he had to be back at the Pizza Parlour before eleven o‘clock. Agnes had told Pierre that day about Frankie’s letter. Pierre knew how important this letter was to Agnes and he was pleased with the mixture of excitement and relief in Agnes’s tone. He arrived at the house with a bottle of champagne and he was prepared for a celebration. He was not prepared, however, for what he got! Agnes was on such a high that the champagne vanished within a half-hour of Pierre’s arrival. They sat side-by-side on the Loretta suite, and Agnes snuggled up to Pierre.

  Suddenly, and without any announcement, Agnes began to unbutton Pierre’s shirt. She ran her fingers through his soft downy chest hair, and Pierre’s nipples popped up like two little tin-hatted soldiers peeking out of fox holes. They kissed passionately. Pierre had his arms wrapped around Agnes. Just above his thumb he felt the zipper of her dress. Slowly he pulled the zip midway down Agnes’s back. He gently slid his hand in a circular motion over her baby-soft skin and she shuddered to his touch. She wore no bra.

  Pierre now decided to go for gold, and finding the zip again he pulled it down to its finishing position at Agnes’s buttocks. Agnes had been hugging Pierre with both her arms wrapped around his neck and she now removed her arms. Pierre had expected this, he couldn’t even believe he had got this far. He expected Agnes to put her hands behind her back and without breaking the kiss re-do the zip midway up her back, if not all the way. Instead, while still kissing him, Agnes took a half step back, dropped her arms to her sides, and the dress slid to the ground.